


In the Land of Moriah

by SouthernContinentSkies



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen, Internal Monologue, Missing Scene, hints of Ezar/Piotr, reference to canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 06:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20756144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernContinentSkies/pseuds/SouthernContinentSkies
Summary: God said to him, “Abraham!”“Here I am,” he replied.Then God said, “Take your son, your only son, whom you love—Isaac—and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you.”- Genesis 22:1-2Ezar reflects.





	In the Land of Moriah

His body is failing him.

He can hear it, when his joints snap if he merely shifts his weight. He can see it, when a paler face regards him from the mirror, and the roots of his hair grow in not white, but colorless. He can feel it, when he awakens in the middle of the night with aches beyond the normal march of age. Even a Barrayaran can get to seventy without organ failure - unless he was with Piotr in the hills, and didn’t wash behind his ears afterwards.

His mind is undimmed, and the doctors say it will remain so - a saving grace, if he believed in such a thing. But there is no grace remaining in the Residence, if indeed there ever was. His body is failing him, and he is running out of time.

And so is Serg.

He remembers the birth; a bloody siege, though thankfully no breaching of the walls had been required. The gates opened of their own accord, eventually, and out marched a conquering Imperial army of one, complete with reckless and defiant warcry.

He should have known, then. Only idiots and play-actors announce themselves so dramatically in advance.

He remembers the nursery, not that he had much to do with it. A room in yellow in the North Wing, with a constant turnover of staff. His wife’s complaints.

He remembers the tutors; the drama with the misbehavior, the strident lack of interest. His wife’s relief when he went off to school.

He remembers the first woman, in Negri’s first surveillance vid, and Ges Vorrutyer following hard upon her heels. The nonchalance, when he confronted him. The first inkling that one child should perhaps have stretched to two.

The second inkling, later; Grishnov’s shadow, creeping closer to the Residence. The proles are useful, necessary even, but the Imperium belongs to the Vor. He will see the capitol in flames, again, before he allows the campstool to be thus suborned.

And after that, the blot of ink subsumed the page.

The first assassination attempt had been a spark of hope. Crude, of course, and no match for Negri’s bodyguards, let alone his spies. But as beginnings go, not bad. He had begun to hope for progress, at last; perhaps the earlier dissipation had been mere ennui, surmountable with some late bloom of true ambition.

The second was a crushing disappointment. No finesse; no contingencies; no _improvement._ The boy had the resources of an entire planet at his fingertips, and even experience had taught him nothing. The spark expired.

And now his kidneys only work one day in five. He has no time, and what his son has not learned yet, he never will.

Twelve years of politicking in the capitol, for better and decidedly for worse; three years of strutting up and down that new Academy, an indulgence he has always rued; six years of bullying his peers at prep school; twelve years of nannies, tutors, minders in the nursery suite. Nine months of very tedious pregnancy, Costanza had assured him; and at the beginning of it all, one even more tedious night of marital obligation, sustained by memories of rough stone walls and imported Betan light-sticks in the dark. So many people’s effort. So much work.

It’s such a shame.

Sentiment is the scourge of politics. He has never indulged in it. In war, it would have been idiocy; in peace, weakness. His feelings on this particular matter are mere genetic selfishness. They certainly cannot be love. He wouldn’t recognize it, after all this time.

An old memory awakens, in the twilight. His aunt’s allotment of Vorbarra madness had come wreathed in incense, glints of gold and solemn faces showing through the smoke. Her stories had wound their way through family folklore, mixed with knights and mutie sorcerers around the fire. He remembers snatches, here and there, and tonight one voice stands out among the rest:

_”God will provide the lamb.”_

Enough. He is an atheist. There will be no other sacrifice. 

Piotr’s boy, at least, will do his duty.


End file.
